


The Stag, The Rose, The Wolf

by rachel2205



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 21:51:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel2205/pseuds/rachel2205
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In late fifth century Britain, Margaery has become what she has always wanted to be: Renly’s queen. But when she meets the King in the Old North, does it still seem like enough? Renly/Margaery/Robb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stag, The Rose, The Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Renly/Margaery/Robb. Some kind of bicurious King Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot courtly love type situation_ and _Any of the aforementioned characters/pairings: some kind of different era AU._  
>  Historical note:  
> There are LOTS of explanatory notes here. I hope they don't put you off! Feedback elsewhere has suggested it's worth reading this before reading the story. :)
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>  
> 
> The history of post-Roman Britain is complicated. I have adapted various sources and fudged a few facts for the sake of narrative. For instance, the Anglo-Saxons are several distinct tribes and don’t have a uniform identity in this period, but I’m being a bit anachronistic for the sake of the story. Post- (or sub-) Roman Britain is a term used to describe the British Isles from the end of Roman imperial rule in the early fifth century to the end of the sixth century, after which point the conquest of what is now England by the Anglo-Saxons is considered to be concluded (even though British culture survived in the West of England and in Wales). Germanic raiders attacked various points of the isles in the early fifth century, and then began to settle in the east from the middle of that century. At some point between 491 and 503 there appears to have been a significant battle, the Battle of Mons Badonicus, the location of which is unknown but which seems to have repelled the Anglo-Saxon forces for around seventy years, pushing the Angles and Saxons back into Kent, Sussex, Norfolk, Suffolk and the Humber. The British seem to have held most of the land to the west of this during a period of relative peace. This battle has since the ninth century been associated with the leadership of King Arthur. The British were largely Christian by the fifth century, though no doubt old religions survived; the Anglo-Saxons were not converted from paganism until later, which was another source of conflict between these peoples.
> 
>  
> 
> Background within the fic:  
> If I end up wanting to do more with this world, I may get the opportunity to show rather than tell you these details! For the purposes of this fic, though, so I don’t need lots of clunky exposition in the text, this background will help.
> 
> The BARATHEONS are from the KINGDOM OF DUMNONIA (Devon; traditionally associated with Arthur) in the south west of England. This remote corner of the country remained relatively independent under Roman rule, making it seem to me like a good place for the resurgence of British power after the Romans left. King Robert Baratheon conquered neighbouring CERNIW (Cornwall) and became king of the whole south-west. He made the controversial decision to marry Cersei LANNISTER, an Anglian princess, in exchange for her family’s assistance in conquering Regia and Lundein. Meanwhile the Lannisters took Mercia in addition to Anglia, which they already controlled. House Baratheon officially became KINGS OF THE BRITISH.
> 
> Following Robert’s death a few months ago, the fragile peace between the Britons and Anglo-Saxons crumbled. King Joffrey has succeeded his supposed-father, but in this period primogeniture (inheritance by eldest son) was certainly not a fixed expectation and Stannis Baratheon and Renly Baratheon have both put themselves forward as kings. In the north, the STARKS have for centuries been kings of BRYNEICH (parts of N. England/S. Scotland), which the Welsh call YR HEN OGLEDD, the Old North; their diminished resources as a result of Saxon incursions meant they accepted military help in return for becoming client kings of the Baratheons and accepting them as Kings of the British, though they have kept their old title as Kings in the Old North. They refuse to bend the knee to the Lannisters, however, and have rebelled. Renly has recently married Margaery, a princess of the romanised KINGDOM OF POWYS which was formed by the marriage of the famed Vortigern to the daughter of the Roman commander Magnus Maximus.
> 
> This map may help:
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> 

Loras’s death had changed Renly; no more a prince of summer, one night he’d stared at Margaery with shadow-socketed eyes and said, voice bleared with furious drunkenness and lack of sleep: “it should have been you.” He said sorry later, which was a hard thing for a man, never mind a king, but although Margaery understood why he had said it she did not forgive it.

Shivering in her fur-trimmed robes, Margaery stood on the ramparts and looked out over the crashing sea below. Brought up in a landlocked kingdom, sometimes the sight of the sea below Tintagel still made her dizzy. She had never been inclined to morbid thoughts, but looking at the foam-flecked water crashing against the grey rocks she sometimes found herself wondering what it would be like to jump from the clifftops. If it would feel freeing, to fall that far. On a bright day the sea was a blue so brilliant it gave her heart a little shock just to look at it, the kind of colour that made her forgive Renly for his many failings as a husband because he’d made her queen of _this_ , but today the water was the same slate shade as the sky and she felt nothing for Renly but contempt.

Four months they’d been married and the king had spent only a handful of nights in her bed, and on those nights he’d done nothing but sleep. Well, that wasn’t quite true. On their wedding night he’d made an agonised attempt to make love to her. Margaery could say, she supposed, that she wasn’t a virgin any more, since Renly had managed to put it in, but as soon as he had his cock had gone soft and slipped out. Margaery had been prepared for some pain, had determined that she wouldn’t make a single sound no matter how much it hurt, but she hadn’t been prepared for the embarrassed misery of feeling Renly’s cock slide out of her. At least there had been a little blood – not much, but enough for her smear from her thigh onto the pristine bedsheet, which her maid had made sure to take out of the bedroom the next day with the stained part draped over her arm, so everyone knew the deed had been done.

For a long time that had been the last of it. On a couple of occasions Renly had attempted to rouse himself, but had given up before even _trying_ to get it inside her. And then there was the terrible night last week. Loras had been dead a month, dead in a battle that had meant Stannis had to flee by ship to wet, miserable Demetia and had left Renly in control of Dumnonia, and she had gone to her husband’s tent outside the walled fort of Tintagel. Renly said he slept there because he should be amongst his soldiers, who were too numerous now to fit inside the fort but instead spread out underneath it by the sea. Margaery knew it was really so he could avoid having to sleep beside her, and she’d decided enough was enough. So she’d gone to his tent, taken off her clothes, and climbed into bed to wait for her husband.

Renly came in drunk, which wouldn’t have worried her once. Margaery was used to dealing with intoxicated men after her life at court in Powys, and Renly had always been the best kind of drunk – cheerful, garrulous, prone to outbursts of affection. Now he drank with a hard-eyed determination that made Margaery anxious, drinking himself into silence and then at last into exhausted sleep. When he came into the tent that night he was still quite steady on his feet, but he had the tight-mouthed look and glassy eyes she’d come to recognise in the past few weeks. They’d begun speaking civilly enough, though Renly was determined she should leave.

“Don’t you find me attractive at all?” Margaery said, and put her arms around his neck. Pressed up against him, she could tell that there was nothing stirring under his cloak.

“You’re very beautiful,” said Renly. “Forgive me, I have had too much wine –”

“I can help,” she insisted, hand worming its way under his clothes and finding his cock. It began to stir a little, and heartened, Margaery moved her hand faster. Renly made a low noise. “Would it help this time if you took me from behind? You could pretend I was –” She meant to say _a boy_ , but Renly started hard.

“Don’t sully his memory,” he said tightly, and Margaery knew he thought she was about to say _Loras_. And then the argument had started that ended with him wishing her dead in Loras’s place. Pulling on her clothes, she had stumbled out into the night, sight blurred with furious tears, but not without a parting shot.

“No wonder you can’t fuck me! Loras told me you preferred him to be on top. And you call yourself a man,” she sneered, before stomping back to the fort. The next day they had made their apologies to each other, but Margaery knew Renly would not forgive her for saying that. Well, she had no plans to forgive him for getting her brother killed, and so she supposed they were even. They had barely spoken for a week, and in her current mood that suited her well enough.

“My lady? The Stark party has been sighted; their ship will land soon,” said a messenger at her shoulder. Margaery sighed, then straightened up. It was time for her to do the part of her job as queen that Renly _would_ let her do, and she knew she was good at it. King Robb had sent his own mother as emissary to Tintagel, after initial discussions between Renly’s ambassador and the King in the Old North had gone well, and Margaery meant to charm her as hard as she could. Margaery might not be very happy being Renly’s wife, but she and Loras had plotted together to make her Renly’s queen ever since Robert Baratheon’s sickness began, and if an alliance with the North would secure her throne then an alliance they _must_ have.

Bad weather kept Catelyn Stark and her party at Tintagel for three weeks; the sea was too rough for a safe voyage to Rheged. And so Margaery had the opportunity to get to know Robb Stark’s mother a little better. She found to her surprise that she liked her. It helped that Catelyn was from further south than her men; the thick accents of her soldiers were almost impossible for Margaery to understand. She wondered how King Robb sounded, if he was more like those dark, gruff men or if he favoured his mother. Not that it mattered; she’d probably never meet him. She knew that Robb favoured Catelyn in looks, at least, because Catelyn had told her so when Margaery admired her auburn hair. Margaery tried to imagine a man who looked like Catelyn, a man with bright blue eyes and a red-brown beard, a great wolfhound loping at his side. Catelyn’s men told stories about that wolf, and although Margaery had to listen hard to understand them, she learned that Grey Wind had killed as fiercely as his master at the battle of the Whispering Wood. The Irish hero Cúchulainn had gifted a Stark king with a wolfhound, and every king since had had one, legend said: but none was as fierce as Grey Wind.

Margaery knew these were silly stories, told to frighten children. All the same, she found it gave her a strange thrill to imagine Robb Stark riding into battle with the great hound following at his heels. It was only, she told herself, because she trusted that King Robb could help her become Queen of the British, not just of the south-west. She wasn’t like her silly maids, who had decided to stop being in love with Renly and fall in love with the idea of Robb instead. Not even if she suspected Robb Stark would have no difficulties getting hard for his wife, were he to wed.

At last the weather turned fine enough for the Starks to leave; Tintagel seemed duller than before when Catelyn was gone. Renly and Catelyn had worked out an agreement that she said she would take back to her son, because no matter in what high esteem Catelyn was held no one would trust an agreement made on her son’s behalf rather than sworn by him. Word came a few weeks later that Robb was willing to bend the knee to Renly if Renly could drive the Saxons out of Elmet; Robb’s forces were too stretched defending Bryneich and Ebrauc to stop their incursions there, or to overthrow the feeble child king who ruled Elmet. Renly would split Elmet in two, giving Robb the north and taking the south for himself, and then together they would defeat first Stannis and then the Lannisters, and Renly would be King of the British. Margaery had learned something of military strategy from her brother, and it sounded to her like a decent plan.

Nothing would happen until the spring, of course. Only a fool fought in the winter. For now Renly’s court had moved from windswept Tintagel to Caer Uisc. It was a much finer place than Tintagel, with Roman baths that could still produce hot water even if the roof was filled with holes, but sometimes Margaery found herself missing the coast. She had never expected that. At night she dreamed of wolves, and would wake with her ears roaring like the sea.

When spring came, Renly’s army rode out. His great forces joined with Robb’s; they pushed the Saxons back into Mercia and toppled the little Arryn king with almost embarrassing ease. Renly called for Margaery to join him in Elmet, where after a great celebratory feast he would accept Robb Stark’s fealty. She had never been so far north before. Elmet was covered in a great thick forest, trees grown so tight together that she could barely see the sky. Not that it mattered much, since each day seemed gloomier than the last, and she was beginning to think the rumours that the sun never shone in the North were true. How much worse must it be in the true Old North? Perhaps Grey Wind really _was_ the height of a man and Robb Stark _did_ ride him into battle; silly stories seemed less foolish in these choking woods, which were surely more suited to monsters than men.

At last they came out of the forest at the hill fort of Loidis. It wasn’t an impressive place, a stump of a hill that looked half-choked by the forest because of the straggling wooden fences strung around its crest. Within those fences, though, there were fires and hot food and _people_ , hundreds of people, and sociable Margaery lit up at the thought of new conversations after weeks on the road with the same companions, who grew more travel-weary and bad-tempered day by day. Inside the fort she found Renly, flushed and handsome, and happier to see her than he had been in a long time. Victory suited him, and this time it wasn’t tainted by her brother’s death. For the first time in months, he looked like the man she had married.

“And where is King Robb?” asked Margaery.

“He’ll be here tonight,” promised Renly, and there was something strange in his face as he said it, a tense sort of anticipation. Was he nervous about the ceremony with Robb? Surely not; it was too late for Robb to back out, and besides, from what she’d heard of Stark honour he wouldn’t dream of breaking his word.

“What’s he like, the King in the Old North?” she asked, trying to tease some sense out of Renly’s expression. “Is he as fearsome as the stories suggest?”

“Oh,” said Renly, laughing, “he’s just a man, I assure you, though a brave one,” but he didn’t quite look at her as he said it, a smile twisting the corner of his mouth and then disappearing. “Here, I have a gift for you to wear tonight,” he added, and a servant brought forth a gold torc, the ends twisted into the shape of roses.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, forgetting Robb for the moment as Renly placed it around her neck. The weight of it was somehow comforting, and the thickness of it forced her to hold her head high. I look like a queen, she thought, and hoped that the Northmen would agree.

The sun was setting as the door to the feasting hall opened. It was gloomy in the hall, and the glare of red-gold light dazzled Margaery so that for a moment all she could see of Robb was his silhouette and the crown of his head, hair turned red and brilliant in the sunlight. By his side there was the great grey shape of his wolfhound, who made a long low growling sound that echoed in the suddenly silent hall. Robb stepped forward then, and she could see that his hair was an ordinary auburn, but she couldn’t shake the strange certainty of a moment before that his hair was the colour of blood, or the feeling that Grey Wind was one of the Cŵn Annwn, the great pale dogs of death itself. Of course she rallied and gave him her best smile as he approached, because Tyrells were not cowards. He was just a man, and men liked Margaery, she had known _that_ since she was twelve.

“Your Grace,” he said to her, voice a soft burr, accent thick but not quite as heavy as that of his men. Thank God his mother had taught him to speak clearly, thought Margaery, and then added the waspish note that this was a surprise, as probably hardly anyone cared about what he said. It was his sword arm that mattered, since Northmen were hardly renowned as diplomats.

“My lord,” she said in return, for although he was a king she outranked him. “I’m so very glad to meet you. I hear you were magnificent at the battle.”

“No more than any one of my men, Your Grace,” Robb said, which wasn’t the graceful sort of reply she’d have expected of a king, and then he took the seat of honour by Renly. Margaery was left to charm Theon Greyjoy, a weaselly sort of man who spent the feast glancing at her bosom, but he made a great deal of being Robb’s sworn brother and so Margaery laughed at his jokes and pretended not to notice that Theon seemed barely aware that she had a face. It was easy enough to half-listen in to Renly’s conversation with Robb, since her king was sitting next to her, though unfortunately the hall was noisy enough that she couldn’t hear Robb’s replies. She noticed that Renly kept smiling, and although Robb’s expression remained serious the tense lines around his eyes had eased. They like each other, she thought with some surprise. She never thought Renly and Robb Stark would have anything in common, besides both being quite good at leading armies.

The meal ended, she bade goodnight to the company, the women leaving so that the men could continue their drinking and talking more raucously than before. They were noisy enough that she couldn’t sleep, so she was wide awake when Renly stumbled into their room.

“Lovely Margaery, did I wake you? A thousand apologies,” he said, in the sunny drunken voice she had not heard since the previous summer. She shook her head, and got out of the bed to help Renly out of his clothes, since it was clear he was struggling. It was then she discovered he was half-hard, which was common enough for a man when he was drunk, but it was long enough since she’d seen Renly so that she froze.

“Lovely Margaery,” said Renly again, and stroked her cheek clumsily. Margaery was not the kind of girl to miss an opportunity, and so she put her hand around his cock and pumped it. It worked better than she expected. Renly looked at her, expression suddenly determined, and pushed her gently back onto the bed. After a moment or two of struggle he had managed to get the head of his prick inside her. Margaery looked up at him; his eyes were closed, his face screwed up.

“Renly,” she began, smothering the absurd urge to laugh, and he shook his head.

“Don’t say anything,” he said through gritted teeth, and so she just lay there until after a couple of painful thrusts he shuddered hard. A moment later he rolled off her, and after kissing her cheek he closed his eyes and fell asleep. Margaery put a hand down between her legs, not quite able to believe it: but the stickiness there proved that after nine months of marriage, Renly had at last managed to climax inside her. Margaery lay on her back in the dark, listening to the snores of her husband, and wondered what had happened to Renly to make this happen. But her wondering took her nowhere, and at last she fell asleep.

The next morning the sky was the pale blue of a robin’s egg and Renly was a curious blend of pride and embarrassment as they breakfasted together. It made Margaery feel strangely tender towards him, as she hadn’t since the first weeks of their marriage, and it put her in a good mood as they walked down to the little chapel where they would hear mass and Robb would make his vow to Renly. This side of the hill was covered in daffodils, and Renly plucked one for Margaery and tucked it behind her ear as they walked; she was still laughing as they walked into the chapel, and Robb turned to see them.

Oh, thought Margaery, laughter dying on his lips. He _is_ handsome. He hadn’t particularly seemed so in the gloom of the hall last night, but now she could see that his eyes were as blue as his mother’s, almost as bright as the sky outside. She glanced at Renly, who was looking at Robb with the strange expression of tense watchfulness she had seen yesterday, and all at once she understood who Renly had been thinking of as he mounted her last night. Renly caught her glance, and he must have read her understanding because he flushed and looked away. The daffodil tumbled out of Margaery’s hair onto the floor, but Renly did not notice; he stepped on it as he walked forward to greet Robb.

***

With summer came more battles, and at last Stannis was resoundingly defeated. He would not bend the knee to his brother, of course, not even as the price for his life, and so he was beheaded on a bright morning. Renly did not do it himself, and Margaery was not sure whether she should despise him for that. She thought of how she loved Loras, and how she could never have brought herself to hurt him, but then she thought of Robb Stark, and how he had said that the man who passed the sentence should wield the sword. She found herself thinking quite often, these days, of things King Robb had said, even though they had spent only a few days together months before. She knew she was not the only one thinking of Robb; on a handful of occasions since the spring Renly had managed to bed her, and she was certain that he forced himself towards climax by fantasising about the King in the North. One night, Renly taking longer to complete the act than usual, she decided to try imagining the same for herself. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine that the man between her thighs was Robb, and that he didn’t just kiss her a few times before climbing onto her, but instead kissed her over and over, her mouth, her throat, her breast…

“Oh,” said Margaery, surprised, and Renly’s eyes opened.

“What is it? Did I hurt you?” he said, expression anxious. Margaery could feel him starting to soften already; it didn’t take very much for Renly to lose his erection, at least with her.

“No, not at all,” she assured him, and with a sigh he rolled off her. Margaery wondered if she should tell her husband that she had for a moment _enjoyed_ their lovemaking, but she decided it might alarm, rather than please, him. Renly wanted her to be happy, she knew… But he also liked it that both of them saw this act as their marital duty, not a sport.

***

The Lannisters were not yet defeated, but Renly’s advisors told him to hold a coronation ceremony anyway. It would look better if Renly took the throne from Joffrey not as a usurper, but as rightful king. Robert Baratheon’s crown was in Joffrey’s possession, and so Renly had a new crown forged. The antlers of his house curled together at the front with a flower. “The stag and the rose,” he said, showing it to Margaery, who kissed him out of a sense of excitement. There was a smaller crown for her, too; in the days before the ceremony she would ask the treasurer to bring it out, and she would try it on in the privacy of her room, practising her most queenly smile.

They were at Caer Uisc now, the walled Roman city in the heart of Dumnonia where Renly had spent his childhood, and it seemed fitting that he should be crowned there. Their palace was a Roman villa; it was crumbling, but there was so much more _space_ inside it than in the lodgings of a hill fort, so she did not mind. The drain pool under the compluvium was mildewed, and she had the servants scrub it until it gleamed. She could not make the water run or the underfloor heating work – once they broke they stayed broken, because their secrets had been lost – but she _could_ make their palace look as beautiful as possible. As the servants scrubbed the mosaics on the floor, she imagined the graceful life she and Renly could have here, how the bottom of her gowns would stay clean on these tiles instead of getting muddy on earthen floors, the way they could recline when they ate in the fine dining room with its murals of forgotten gods rather than sitting upright in a dark hall. Such fantasies had sustained her through the first year of her marriage, and they still pleased her; but they lacked something. Sometimes, lying in bed with an ache between her thighs that she had only her hand to relieve, she suspected she knew what that lack was.

The day of the coronation came. It was held in the basilica of the old Roman forum, which had been dedicated as a church. Sunlight streamed through the fine tall windows as she followed Renly down the aisle to the altar. The church was crammed with people, all the great and good who had sworn fealty to her husband and thus by extension to her, and her heart swelled with fierce pride. Robb Stark was here, and the sight of him startled her enough that if she were less graceful she would have stumbled. Instead of his usual dark attire he was dressed in white furs; they would be hot on an early autumn day, but they certainly made him stand out. It was a clever reminder, she knew, that even though Robb bent the knee he was still a king.

She and Renly knelt at the altar, and when the bishop placed the crown on her head she felt a satisfaction so deep it almost hurt. The sweet oil with which the bishop had anointed her forehead trickled slowly down her face, but she hardly cared. All she thought about was the weight of the crown on her head, and turning to look at Renly she could see the same satisfaction on his face. They were, for a moment, in perfect accord.

The peaceful moment was shattered by a commotion from the back of the church, and as a great shape loped up the aisle she realised why. Grey Wind had been tied up outside, but somehow had got free. He hated to be away from his master’s side, and so had come looking for him. Robb rose from his seat and in an embarrassed whisper beckoned the dog to his side, but Grey Wind instead ran along the aisle to Margaery, his nails clacking against the tiled floor. Tail wagging, he sniffed at her. Margaery froze; she was not scared of dogs, but this thing was monstrously large. And then she dog put its paws on her shoulders and licked her face. He had smelled the oil, she realised, and she laughed – a bright clear laugh that made her sound like the girl she was rather than a queen. Robb was a moment later at her side, tugging Grey Wind and whispering furiously at him as he did so. Grey Wind wagged his tail unrepentantly, and Margaery swore that he was grinning at his master.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said, loud enough for the congregation to hear. “The Old North is clearly very keen to swear fealty,” and she laughed again, because Robb had evidently learned something of political language from her husband on their campaigns. Then he wiped her face gently with a scrap of cloth, and she felt like her breath had stopped in her chest. Robb looked at her for a long moment, and then tucked the cloth away in his sleeve.

“Can we continue with the coronation now the circus is over?” asked Renly laconically, and face flushing she turned back to the priest as Robb, Grey Wind at his heels, returned to his seat.

The feast went on from the afternoon and well into the night. Renly was magnificent, all dazzle and good humour in his fine robes and his crown, and Margaery remembered why men loved him. Why her brother had loved him, and for a sharp sweet moment she could imagine perfectly how this night would have looked if Loras had been sat at the high table with them. Instead Robb Stark sat at her husband’s shoulder; but once the formal part of the evening was done and the feast descended into drinking and singing, he slipped outside. Margaery assumed it was to relieve himself, but he did not return, and after a little while she followed.

Robb stood with his back against the wall, white furs gleaming in the moonlight. He straightened up when he saw her, and bowed his head. Margaery shivered in the cool air, and envied Robb’s furs.

“Your Grace.”

“Are you leaving so soon, my lord?” she asked. “The party will last for hours yet, I’m sure, and I had heard that you Northmen can drink us southerners under the table. Are you going to disappoint us?” she said, smile dimpling.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said. “I’m glad for your husband – and for you, of course – but this celebration seems hollow when the Lannisters still claim they hold the throne.” His expression was very fierce.

“You really hate them, don’t you?” she said softly. “Why?”

“Joffrey has my sister,” he said. “He was meant to marry Sansa – I would never have agreed to it, but the match was made in my father’s reign, and he loved Robert Baratheon more than the man deserved. When I refused to pledge allegiance to King Joffrey, he broke the engagement. But he did not give Sansa back.” Robb’s voice was low and even, but Margaery could see the tension in his jaw. “You must have heard the rumours.” Margaery had, of course. That Joffrey had had Sansa whipped in front of his court as punishment for her brother’s sins, and everyone assumed that after that he had raped her. From what people said about Joffrey, a girl’s tears would have made him more, rather than less, amorous.

“It’s a terrible thing, to lose your sister,” Margaery said, because of course she assumed that’s how Robb would think of Sansa. She was ruined, so she might as well be dead.

“She’s not _lost_ ,” spat Robb, with a venom that surprised Margaery. “She’s still alive, isn’t she? You think I care about my sister only for her wedding price, that now I can’t marry her off she’s dead to me?”

Margaery looked up into Robb’s furious face, and felt a stitching anxious pain under her breastbone.

“Of course not,” she said. “I had a brother, my lord, who loved me as much as you love Princess Sansa, and I miss him every day.” She reached out and touched his hand, her fingers cold against his warm skin.

“Your Grace –”

“Call me Margaery, there’s no one here but us,” she said in a fierce whisper. Robb looked down at her, and the air between them seemed to shimmer.

“I can’t, Your Grace.”

“You can,” she insisted, tightening her fingers around his hand. “I’m not just a queen.”

“I’ve known that since you wore a daffodil in your hair,” Robb said in a hoarse whisper, and Margaery felt a fierce triumph all through her, _yes_ , but then Robb pulled away. “And I’m your husband’s sworn man,” he said gently, “but more than that, his friend. I should go back to the feast,” he added, stepping towards the door. Margaery felt her eyes prickle, which was stupid, and so she gave him as regal nod as she could muster.

“Goodnight, my lord,” she said coolly, and swept away. She could not bear the thought of returning to the feast now, and so she went to her chamber, where a maid helped her out of her heavy gown and placed the crown in its strongbox. Margaery lay down on the great bed in her shift, but tonight took no joy in a mattress stuffed with feathers instead of straw. She was cringing with embarrassment and disappointment. If only she had tried to kiss him, she thought, rolling onto her side. He would never have pulled away then, she was sure of it. She rolled onto her other side. She should have slapped him for assuming she was propositioning him. Her words were quite innocent! Margaery pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. He was a stupid man, anyway, with no elegance or wit. Anyone could be handsome. She didn’t care a bit.

Margaery went on not caring well into the night, until the candles by the bedside were burned down and she had to not care in the dark. After a while the bedroom door opened, and she squinted against the sudden light. It was Renly, arm slung around Robb’s neck. Robb was carrying a candle, and Margaery could tell he was far more sober than her husband.

“Let’s get you to bed,” said Robb patiently, setting the candle down. Neither of them had noticed her, she realised; her side of the room was in shadows.

“Will you come with me?” said Renly teasingly, and Margaery breathed in hard as he pressed a clumsy kiss to Robb’s lips. Both men started and turned to look as she rose out of the bed and stormed towards them.

“Oh, so he is your _friend_ ,” she said to Robb furiously, and pushed past them to the door.

“Margaery, wait,” said Renly plaintively, but Margaery opened the door and stepped out. The tiles were freezing against her bare feet, and she realised she had no idea where to go. She was bound to bump into a servant or guard, and how could she explain why she was walking around in her shift? Well, she was a queen, she thought, lifting her chin. She didn’t _need_ to explain. Then the bedroom door opened and she turned, expecting her husband, but it was Robb.

“Your Grace,” he started, and she lifted her hand to stop him.

“Do you call him that too?” she said, and her eyes filled with hot angry tears.

“It’s not what you think,” he said. “Or it is what you think, but only a little. It’s not like he was with Loras,” he said, and his expression was so anxious that Margaery couldn’t help the tears spilling out. “Oh, Your Grace,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. “My dear, don’t cry.”

“Tell me how it is, then,” said Margaery, face half-smothered by his furs. They had a reassuring smell, something animal and man altogether.

“It’s not so uncommon, in my country, for men on campaigns to – give one another a hand,” he said, awkwardly, “when they have spent weeks away from women. And when they are good friends, well, it is a – brotherly sort of thing to do.”

“You must have strange brothers,” said Margaery, voice muffled, and Robb laughed, a surprised sort of sound.

“Maybe we do. His Majesty has become a good friend to me, these past months.” Robb drew back, and Margaery wiped her face on her sleeve. “Will you come back inside?”

Margaery nodded and followed. Really, it was stupid to be so upset; Renly must think she was a silly girl. What king stayed faithful to his wife? It was unfair that a queen had to stay honest when a king could do what he liked, but that’s just how things were... Still thinking on this, she barely listened to Renly’s apologetic words.

“I don’t mind, Renly, truly,” she said, cutting him off after a while. “You did more with Loras, and he was my own brother... But if my lord Robb can be your friend, I don’t see why he can’t be mine too.” Renly blinked, and Robb made a startled sound. “I know you know he cares for me,” she said to my husband. “I could tell that today, at our coronation.”

“Your Grace, I would never –” started Robb, and Margaery hushed him.

“The king can have whatever he likes,” she said, “and he wants me to be happy. Don’t you, Renly?”

“I do,” he said, face troubled, “and I know I am not much husband to you in that respect, but... What kind of man would leave his wife alone in her bedroom with another man?”

“Oh,” Margaery said, “you don’t have to leave.” It was a shocking sort of idea, she could tell from Robb and Renly’s expressions. For a moment they looked so alike that she almost laughed. “Why can’t we just... be friends here together?” she said, quite sweetly. Renly and Robb looked at one another, and then Robb lowered his head and kissed her.

Margaery had kissed quite a lot of boys before she married Renly, although she hadn’t let them go further, but this was the sweetest kiss of her life, she knew it. The taste of his mouth made her stomach clench, and she made a little noise. Something about that seemed to stir Robb, because in a moment he was tugging her shift over her head. Margaery lay back on the bed, watching as Renly turned to Robb and began to unfasten his furs.

“Oh,” she said, when at last Robb was naked.

“He _is_ quite something, isn’t he?” said Renly, with a gloating sort of satisfaction, and swept his hand down Robb’s back. Robb looked embarrassed, but that hadn’t had any effect on his arousal; he was still very hard, and Margaery bit her lip.

“I had better not,” said Robb, and cleared his throat awkwardly and started again. “I had better not – spend inside you, Your Grace. You can’t risk having my baby.” The flush of disappointment Margaery felt faded as Robb climbed onto the bed beside her, and began to kiss down her body. Her back arched as he took her nipple in his mouth. The mattress sagged a little, and she turned her head to see that Renly had joined them on the bed.

“You’re lovely,” he said wonderingly, as if seeing her for the first time, and with a sudden rush of fondness she reached out for him. He held her hand as Robb kissed her stomach, and she clenched her fingers around him as he put his mouth between her legs. She’d touched herself there, of course, but her fingers felt nothing like _this_. Her free hand rested on Robb’s curls, then twisted in them when he pushed his tongue inside her, and then when he moved his mouth to suck on the hard nub she’d used before to give herself pleasure she dug her nails so hard into Renly’s hand that he yelped.

“Oh,” she said, “please,” and then she couldn’t say anything, just made soft sounds until suddenly her whole body shuddered, heels digging into the bed, and she cried out a “ _yes_ ” in a voice she hardly recognised as her own.

Robb lifted his head, and kissed her hip so tenderly she almost wanted cry. She felt like a starfish she’d seen thrown onto the shore at Tintagel, sprawled out here on the bed, and she watched with a dazed sort of pleasure as Renly moved in to kiss Robb. Surely he would taste her on Robb’s mouth, she thought, but Renly didn’t seem to mind. She had never thought it would be erotic to see men kiss, but the sight of this made her breath catch, and she breathed in harder when she saw Robb stroke Renly’s prick. Renly made a low sound of pleasure she’d never heard from him in their own painful lovemaking, and she realised how very much he must have missed being with a man.

“I should – with Margaery –” said Renly after a while, drawing back with difficulty. “Perhaps this time I’ll start a child in you, my queen,” he said, with an air of such determined hope that Margaery had to open her arms to him.

“Finish inside me, then, husband,” she said, smiling up at him. It was better for both of them knowing that Robb was watching; she knew that was how she felt, and from the way Renly kept glancing at Robb she guessed he felt it too. Renly’s thrusts were harder than usual, and Margaery found herself making little sounds of pleasure as he moved. It wasn’t like the feel of Robb’s mouth on her, but it was still good in a way she hadn’t known it could be. When Renly at last shuddered she felt herself shiver a little in sympathy, and cradled his head as he slumped against her.

“Lie down with us?” she said softly to Robb. He lay on her right side as Renly pressed against her left, and she felt a very sweet satisfaction. “Let me,” she added, reaching down to circle Robb’s prick with her hand. The heat of it made her own cheeks flush, and she turned her head so she could kiss him, long slow kisses that matched the sweet steady motion of her hand, until at last Robb gasped against her mouth and spilled over her fingers. She smiled as he lay back on the bed, panting, because she had heard what he had whispered as he came. It was her name.

In the morning the Stark party was due to begin its long journey north. Margaery and Renly were there to see them off, of course, splendid in fine clothes – although both of their faces were pinched from lack of sleep. It had been a long and very pleasant night, and although Margaery hated the thought of Robb leaving she knew the memories of the night would sustain her for some time.

“When will we see you again, my lord?” she said sweetly to Robb, as if he had not left her bed only a handful of hours before.

“When His Grace calls for me,” he said, and bowed a farewell to them both. Watching the Northmen depart, Margaery had the feeling it would not be very long before Renly called on the Starks for counsel, and glancing at her husband she could see that he had had the same thought. Smiling, she tucked her arm through his, and they stepped out of the autumn air into the palace, perfectly at peace.


End file.
